


Stay

by OkLumi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Auror Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Drinking, M/M, Rentboy Draco Malfoy, Switching, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23360170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkLumi/pseuds/OkLumi
Summary: It would be so easy to shove him away and simply apparate back home to leave him here, with a house and some food and a bed. He knows he wouldn’t even feel guilty for it; it would be more than nice already. But as much as Harry wishes he wanted to do that, he doesn’t want to do that, and he doesn’t move a muscle as Malfoy pulls his pants down and drops to his knees.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 154





	Stay

The sky above Harry is lit with twinkling stars, winking curiously at him. He sighs, tired, and watches the cold air transforming his puff of air into a white cloud, disrupting his vision of the sky.

Harry is taking the shorter way home, even though it’s a slightly dodgier route. He’s seen fights and people that couldn’t be anything other than prostitutes several times, but he’s bloody tired and wants to go home.

He briefly considers apparating but decides against it; he’d be nauseous for the rest of the evening, and he’d rather just relax.

And so, when he spots a figure leaning against a wall in a seductive way, he isn’t surprised in the slightest.

He doesn’t change his walking speed, hoping and expecting that his Auror robes will deter any such approach. These people know as well as him that selling sex is illegal, and he could very well get them arrested if they try anything.

The light of the streetlamp over the figure gives away blond hair and a distinctly male body of hard lines.

He feels a small pang of guilt upon seeing how scarcely he is dressed; he doesn’t even have a jacket on, only his thin, green shirt and dark jeans. He now realises that what he thought to be an enticing posture, with a tilted head and crossed arms, is just an attempt at keeping warmth.

Harry directs his gaze away, swallowing. There are limits to his empathy, and it simply doesn’t lie with whores.

He continues in a brisk pace, starts feeling confident that he’ll manage to pass him unapproached.

And then comes the quiet “Potter?”

Harry freezes, tries not to stop, but he knows that voice, and he doesn’t believe it.

There’s no fucking way. But as he turns his head, the man is exactly who Harry expects. It takes him two tries before he manages to speak.

“Malfoy.”

He furrows his brows at him, squints slightly, and Harry wonders if he’s trying to scowl.

“Come to arrest me?” That voice he knows far too well says, but Harry’s stomach turns at how weak it sounds.

“At this hour? Don’t you think that’s unlikely,” he replies, trying to give little away and keep the upper hand.

The blond simply gives him a ‘hm’, then lets his gaze fall, raking down his body and back up to his eyes.

“What do you want from me, then?” He says smoothly with a step forward. Harry fights the urge to step back.

“I- I was going home, Malfoy. Don’t be delusional.”

“That’s what they all say when they haven’t made up their minds yet,” Malfoy drawls boldly with another step forward. The sparse lighting of the dodgy alleyway shifts over his body, enough for Harry to see lips bordering blue and too pale skin.

“You look sick. You’re not well.” Harry expects something akin to ‘well observed, Potter’ in response.

“Make me feel better, then,” Malfoy whispers instead, a mere foot away from Harry now. He can’t move.

As if thinking Harry’s on the fence, Malfoy carelessly adds “I’ll give you a deal. Half the prize.”

I should leave, Harry thinks, tries convincing himself. But a sharp clatter that can’t be anything else than Malfoy’s teeth rattling makes all reason go away.

“Follow me,” he says and turns, promptly shoving all his thoughts away. He could take him to a hotel, or a motel, or even a homeless shelter; though, come to think of it, he only knows of magical ones, and he can’t imagine they would do anything for Malfoy. He just knows that he won’t bring slut Malfoy home, though, so that’s not an option either. A thought strikes him then, and as much as the dreads the upcoming apparition, he is set on the decision.

Harry stops once they are away from any potential observers, careful even in a street with several magical shops, and grabs Malfoy’s wrist. He doesn’t miss the flinch it earns him but wills himself not to dwell on it.

Then, he apparates.

He lets go off Malfoy’s cold hand the minute they’re inside of Grimmauld place.

“I’ll get you some food and then you can-” he begins but stops at the feeling of cold skin to his own. He stares dumbly at Malfoy as the hand around his neck curls up into his hair, and then he’s leaning in to brush his lips against Harry’s neck.

Harry lets him press small kisses to his skin, lump growing in his throat, and starts reaching for his wand. Malfoy’s hand and lips are so cold that a shiver runs down Harry’s own spine; he can’t imagine how cold Malfoy must be himself.

He lifts his wand, and in less than a millisecond, Malfoy has spun around, away from him, with his hands up to protect his face.

After a moment he realizes he’s not in danger, and pulls his hands away, but doesn’t move closer, wary of the wand still.

Harry feels miserable, quickly puts the wand back down - he can cast it just fine without a wand anyway, what was he thinking? - then mutters the warming spell. He doesn’t miss Malfoy’s eyes widening, nor the sigh he seems to release subconsciously.

“Wandless magic, huh?” The blond mutters, then moves back to resume his assault on Harry’s neck. Harry tilts his head back until it touches the wall and tries not to think. He should stop it right now, but he doesn’t want to, and he does, for some unbeknownst reason, not know why.

The hands, minutely warmer now, trail down his body to rest at his waist. As the lips move up his face, getting dangerously close to his lips, the hands reach his belt, and undo it quickly, as if they’ve done it a hundred times before. Which, Harry thinks sourly, they very well might have.

It would be so easy to shove him away and simply apparate back home to leave him here, with a house and some food and a bed. He knows he wouldn’t even feel guilty for it; it would be more than nice already. But as much as Harry wants to want to do that, he doesn’t want to do that, and he doesn’t move a muscle as Malfoy pulls his pants down and drops to his knees.

A hand, now only slightly cool against his skin, guides Harry’s already hard prick to a pair of lips.

The foreplay is brief, almost non-existent, and consists of a lick up his entire length and a hard, deliberate suck on the head before Malfoy takes him into his mouth. He bobs his head, once, twice, then moves forward until Harry is as far in as he can go. Harry is almost impressed before remembering that this is what Malfoy does.

And then, after another bob, Harry forgets how to think because it feels fucking amazing. He focuses all his concentration on breathing evenly, somehow embarrassed by the thought of being too loud. Malfoy is making obscene noises, as if he’s the one receiving an incredible blowjob, and Harry knows it’s not bad to be loud, but he still doesn’t want to be as whiny as a whore.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he eventually pants, and when Malfoy doesn’t budge but rather seems to double his efforts, he pulls his head off by tugging at his hair. The motion is harsher than he intended, but he doesn’t care.

He grabs Malfoy again and apparates, this time to what he thinks he remembers is the nicest bedroom. It’s still dusty, and smells strange, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to care, because he’s already at his knees again.

“No, I’m going to fuck you,” Harry says, apparently more surprised by the words than Malfoy, who immediately moves over to the bed.

Harry swallows, and to distract himself starts searching for some lube.

“The spell is imbuo,” Malfoy says, catching on.

Shredding the rest of his clothes, Harry walks over to the bed, where Malfoy waits, pantless and fumbling with the remaining few buttons of his shirt with shaky hands. Harry gently slaps his hands away to take over. He isn’t more successful and ends up tearing it apart in frustration, and then tosses it aside. Malfoy anxiously follows the clothing with his eyes, and Harry understands.

“I’ll get you another one,” he reassures, then takes in the body in front of him. Malfoy is more attractive than he was expecting, and quite frankly, more attractive than he was hoping. His body is beyond pale, and so thin his ribs are sticking out, but he still manages to look graceful and elegant and just bloody good, making resisting him even more difficult.

His cock is throbbing from being ignored, so he reaches down to touch, and Malfoy immediately follows by turning around and lowering himself to the mattress on his hands and knees. He casts the spell, watches how Malfoy shifts slightly, then buries his face in a pillow.

For the first time since Malfoy started touching him, Harry hesitates, staring at the exposed bottom right in front of him. This is Malfoy, he thinks, only now fully realizing.

He snaps out of it once Malfoy sways his hips back and forth, getting his attention. He reaches out, teases by circling his finger around, but never breaching, the rim. It earns him a small whine, and he watches, fascinated, as the hole clenches and relaxes. He pushes his hand forwards, lets his index finger slip inside. It feels unnaturally sticky, and Harry pauses before remembering it’s the effect of the spell.

“What are you…” Malfoy mumbles, words muffled by the pillow, then he turns his head to look back at Harry.

“Oh. I thought you would want… There’s a spell for that, too. Collaxo,” Malfoy supplies, and Harry repeats it, ignoring the urge to prepare him the muggle way.

Malfoy relaxes completely around his finger, and Merlin, it shouldn’t be so hot, but it is. He lines himself up and experimentally pushes a little inside, then stops to just feel. Even after the spell, Malfoy’s arse hugs his prick tightly, and he remembers just why he prefers men in bed. The spelled lube feels like regular lube, except it’s a little runnier, and as he applied a rather generous amount, it has already started running down Malfoy’s thighs. It turns Harry on more than he cares to admit, perhaps because he imagines how it would look if it was his come instead.

Harry pushes forwards some more, letting Malfoy adjust comfortably. He knows he’s far from small, and although Malfoy hasn’t seemed to have had any problems thus far, he doesn’t want to hurt him if he can help it.

Finally, Harry is all the way inside, and after gripping Malfoy’s hips, he finally starts thrusting. He loses control quickly, completely losing himself in the feeling. And fuck, it feels good, to have a warm, pliant body against is own again, and it feels almost illegal when he remembers who said body belongs to, which only makes it better.

Malfoy is louder now than he was during the blowjob downstairs, and that is saying something, because he was loud. The sounds are only bringing Harry closer to orgasm, and he completely gives up on controlling his own volume.

“Oh, fuck, Malfoy,” Harry moans, snapping his hips faster, tightening his grip around the other man’s hips. He shifts, lets Malfoy knees slide down until he lies flat on the mattress. Harry lowers himself over him, holds his wrists down, and keeps going, grinding his hips down.

If the desperate whines and high-pitched moans are anything to go by, Malfoy is getting closer too, and in a sudden desperate need to hear him come through his own sounds, Harry sinks his teeth into the flesh of his shoulder to quiet himself, somehow finding pleasure in Malfoy’s moan of half-pain, half-arousal.

Then Malfoy cries out in an achingly beautiful and desperate sound, writhing beneath Harry, and clenches around him. It makes Harry come, too, and his body shivers with an orgasm more intense than he’s had in a very long time.

He keeps his mouth on Malfoy’s shoulder until he needs to breathe and vaguely registers said shoulder trying to twist out of his bite. He lets go, not registering the angry bite mark he’s left before resting his forehead against Malfoy’s back, regaining control over his limbs and his breath.

Carefully, Harry moves his body away until he slips outside and drops down next to Malfoy. He tries checking how he’s doing, but he’s already asleep. He remembers the feeling of sharp hipbones and scarily bony wrists but doesn’t have the heart to wake him up for some food. If Harry is this tired from their shag, he doesn’t even want to try imagining how exhausted Malfoy must be. Besides, he hasn’t been here in a few months, and even the best preservation spells aren’t always reliable.

Not trusting himself to sleep with Malfoy, he leaves to find refuge in a bedroom downstairs after casting another warming charm and a cushioning charm and spreading the covers over the pale body.

Harry wakes up before the birds, before the sun, to buy food and two shirts for Malfoy. He gets one in the same pale green as Malfoy’s old one, as well as a deep maroon red one because he likes it and feels generous. He doesn’t pause to think why before he buys a silver bracelet from a jewellery shop nearby as well.

Once he gets back, he neatly arranges the items out by the kitchen table in a way he hopes Malfoy will like. He vanishes the food in the fridge and cupboards without even bothering to check what is worth saving and piles the bags worth of food inside.

How much does a night cost? How much does half the prize of a night cost? He has no idea how much money he should leave, so he empties his pockets as well as the old wallet by the mantelpiece and piles it up next to the shirts and bracelet. It adds up to just over a hundred galleons, which he hopes is good enough.

Harry is two blocks away from his house when he changes his mind and floos back to Grimmauld place. After adding the spare keys and a short note on top of the shirts, he finally leaves for work.

Harry does his best to ignore the gnawing feeling that arises in his stomach after he leaves Grimmauld place. He doesn’t know if it is lust, regret or pity, or perhaps a mixture of the three, but he plainly refuses to acknowledge how much he drinks the following days to calm the feeling. He also refuses to recognize that he wanks himself raw every night to the thought of a sickly thin body and messy, blond locks. He feels disgusted with himself after taking the shorter route home five days later. He doesn’t find an offering Malfoy, nor anyone else offering. Perhaps it’s for the best; Harry has no faith left in himself to be sure that he wouldn’t take them up on the offer, if only to see if they feel as good or if it’s just Malfoy that has the effect on him.

It takes a concerned Hermione and a confused Ron to snap him out of it two weeks after what he’s started referring to as the incident. He takes them up on the offer to join him in a pub that night to let himself go for a while.

He almost falls asleep on Ron’s shoulder, and his best friends take him back to his flat.

The doorbell ringing wakes him up, and he warily checks the judas before opening.

Harry is so unprepared for the sight of Malfoy in the green shirt that he immediately floos to Grimmauld place.

He stumbles out of the fireplace, almost losing his glasses, and crashes into a lamp that topples over and breaks, the glass from the light bulb shattering all over the floor.

With a cuss, he vanishes the mess and turns to take in the state of the room.

The red shirt sits on the table, neatly folded and with the piece of metal resting upon it. He doesn’t bother counting, but less than a third of the original pile is gone, and the note with his address is where he left it.

Remembering the bottle of firewhisky he bought, he rummages the cupboards until he finds it. It’s half empty, and the discovery thrills Harry.

After several swigs, he throws the empty bottle away and floos back.

Malfoy is there still, sitting close to the wall, his head buried between updrawn knees.

Shutting down his thoughts again, he unlocks the door, retreats to his bedroom.

When Malfoy joins him, it takes all he has not to pound on him immediately. He meets him halfway, forces him to step backwards again, but he’s too slow, so Harry grabs his shoulders and shoves until his back hits the door. He lets out a pained noise but doesn’t move a muscle to stop Harry.

They didn’t kiss the last time, and perhaps it’s a whore thing not to, but Harry doesn’t care. He locks lips with Malfoy, who tries to turn his head but is too slow. Harry doesn’t care, and when Malfoy returns the kiss a moment later, the weak protest is long forgotten.

He forces Malfoy down on his knees again, grabs his hair and shoves his face into his groin. The hands are quick, polished nails shining with the sun’s reflection as he pulls the pants down and grabs Harry.

“Suck,” Harry slurs, and the mouth is on him before he can finish.

It’s as good as he remembers, but he can’t get enough, and he tugs on his hair, forces him to go faster. It doesn’t take long before he’s fucking into his mouth, and he’s never been this rough with anyone before, but Malfoy takes it all and doesn’t even gag.

“Look at me,” he grits out, enthralled by Malfoy’s shiny eyes opening to meet his. After one blink, the tears fall hastily down his cheeks in flowing rivers, and Harry finds it grotesquely beautiful.

He pushes into Malfoy as far as he can and comes, feeling him struggling to swallow it down. Malfoy keeps the eye contact, even as he finally gags around him, cries more tears.

Harry pulls him off, and once again, Malfoy immediately moves to the bed, only this time with a hoarse cough.

He is hard again quicker than he thought possible, and almost forgets the spells before sinking into Malfoy. It, too, is as good as he remembers, and he can’t stop thrusting harshly into him.

Once he notices the faint marks left from his bite, he can’t stop staring, until he pulls out and flips Malfoy over, not baring the reminder for much longer.

Malfoy looks astounded at the motion, pauses once his eyes fall upon Harry’s cheeks. It only makes Harry angrier, and he grabs slender thighs in a bruising grip, forces them apart.

The tears finally fall from his face, land on Malfoy’s stomach, who in turn squirms at the feeling.

The angle is different, and it takes him a while to find Malfoy’s prostate again. When he does, he is rewarded with more of those sweet, loud moans. Harry cares about his own pleasure, he doesn’t care about Malfoy’s. He doesn’t. The git is a slut.

“You’re a fucking slut, Malfoy,” he says harshly to remind himself, hates how his voice wobbles.

“Yes,” Malfoy agrees, moves the hand on his cock faster. “Yes, oh, fuck, Harry,” he whines, then comes all over himself. Harry pulls out, follows him, painting his chest with more spunk, then collapses on top of him.

His head hurts, his stomach aches with that strange feeling again, and the world is spinning around him. It hurts, everything hurts, and he feels pathetic when he starts crying into Malfoy’s neck.

Malfoy doesn’t move, and Harry briefly wonders whether it’s also a whore thing not to stay the night. I’ll find out in the morning, he thinks before he feels the come between them vanish and a careful, bony hand wrapping around his back, and then he promptly falls asleep.

Harry wakes up to an empty house, and he doesn’t remember why his head hurts so much until he sees his clothes and wand scattered around the bedroom floor after his shower.

When he arrives at Grimmauld place, he immediately notices the red shirt gone, but is somewhat saddened by the bracelet sitting lonely on the table. More of the money is gone, and Harry could swear that the fridge is less full now than it was.

The note is still there. Harry doesn’t think much of it.

He continues to drink, albeit somewhat less than he did during the weeks prior.

He keeps going back to Grimmauld place, feeling he’s missing something, but nothing changes except for the fridge, which now is half-empty.

The feeling is back, eating him up from within, and not even a night out with Ron and Hermione makes it go away.

He starts sleeping at Grimmauld place, desperate to see the blond again, but they never meet.

One Wednesday night, Kreacher shows up in the living room, and he gives Harry one sour look before dropping the little note he’d been holding to the floor.

Harry rushes over, but his heart falls as he realizes it’s simply his own address. He throws it away, but the paper simply spins around in the air a few times, then slowly descends into Harry’s lap.

His eyes freeze at the elegant scrawl that, on the backside of the note, writes out five words and a three-digit number.

He all but sprints out of the door to find the hotel.

Harry is completely out of breath when he reaches the door on the third floor, can feel his heart thunder in his ears. He knocks twice, then waits, hoping he’s not too late.

The door opens, and he’s greeted with a deep red shirt and grey eyes. He is almost certain that the cheeks aren’t as sunken anymore.

“You dolt. I’m almost out of money,” Malfoy mumbles as he turns and heads towards the bed.

“Sorry,” Harry breathes, following him into the soft cushions, then grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss.

Malfoy moves to suck him off again, and Harry doesn’t object, addicted to the heavenly deep throating, and finds himself unable to push him off before he comes hard.

He lets Malfoy fuck him twice until they’re both close to passing out, and then they simply cuddle up in silence. Harry feels like a teenager all over again, with thousands of butterflies in his stomach, and he finally realizes what the feeling in his stomach is. His heart feels close to breaking as Malfoy lifts a hand to absent-mindedly push a stray lock of hair out of Harry’s forehead, lingering in his hair for far too long.

When he starts crying again, Malfoy is quick to hug him. It feels good, and he falls asleep.

Harry wakes in the middle of the night sweating and panting. Malfoy is eyeing him warily with his arms still around him, and he realizes he’s had a nightmare, though he can’t remember what about.

“Stay. Don’t leave me in morning,” Harry begs, meeting Draco’s pale grey eyes, then looks away in shame.

It takes him half an hour of waiting before he gets his answer, and it’s whispered so quietly he almost misses it.

“Okay.”

When he wakes up, it is to a body sleeping next to him, the silver bracelet finally on his left wrist.


End file.
